


Wishers Were Ever Fools

by guineapiggie



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, Post-Season/Series 03, in good ways and in bad, phryne is haunted by a roman soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 13:54:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18874534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineapiggie/pseuds/guineapiggie
Summary: The trip so far, as I’ve said – but you haven’t been able to read those letters yet, so I’ll be forgiven for reiterating – oh, it’s been a dream. As much of a dream as any trip could be, anyway, with my father’s whining in my ear every step of the way. But the sea, Jack, the sun on the waves for miles and miles, and seeing the shores come up on the horizon, and the towns and the landscapes from above – and the heat and the wind and the desert, those colours all the way to the horizon, and now the pyramids! I wish you could see.





	1. Chapter 1

_Jack –_

_I have time to write for the first time in days, and tomorrow morning there is actual hope of actually sending what few lines I have managed to throw together for you along the way. I’m sorry I could not get them to you sooner, but I know you are an infuriatingly patient man, so I hope you’ll forgive._

_The trip so far, as I’ve said – but you haven’t been able to read those letters yet, so I’ll be forgiven for reiterating – oh, it’s been a dream. As much of a dream as any trip could be, anyway, with my father’s whining in my ear every step of the way. But the sea, Jack, the sun on the waves for miles and miles, and seeing the shores come up on the horizon, and the towns and the landscapes from above – and the heat and the wind and the desert, those colours all the way to the horizon, and now the pyramids! I wish you could see. I can just imagine the look on your face, seeing all those places, but it’s not the same to imagine it. I’ll have to whisk you away from that desk of yours, someday, to get the real thing. _

_My father complains about the food, naturally, all the time, but I think it’s wonderful. You would love it, I think – I hope you are getting Dot’s gratin in the meantime. You should, if you play nice, I did leave instructions to that effect. Mr Butler at least has promised to refill your stash of biscuits – I may have had the last one, but I’m sure you’ve noticed that by now. I am very sorry. Might be moved to beg your forgiveness, possibly. If you really wanted me to. (I apologise for the ramblings, but it’s a treat to imagine the smile it might get out of you. I miss those smiles of yours. I like to think they’re quite for me, selfish, I know… I do hope you’ll have more than enough reason to smile these days, of course, but do save a few of those smiles for me.)_

_I could go on forever about this place, Jack, all that history and all those people and those mysterious alleys – I feel like I could find a mystery around every corner and underneath every stone in the sand, if I cared to look. And I am sorely tempted, believe me, but I must bring my father home, pull my poor mother out of this mess. And as glorious as all this is, the longer I wait around here, the longer it will be before I am back home. I can’t say the excitement is waning just yet, but I do miss Melbourne. Quite terribly. And –_

_Speaking of my father, he hasn’t come back from dinner. No doubt to lose some more of my money in some card game. I’m afraid that’s all for now, then, I’ve been at this far too long, Lord knows how far he’s wandered off by now…_

_Again, still, always very, very affectionally yours,_

_HPF_

_P.S.: Jack, it’s late now, and I only have a candle that looks quite untrustworthy, so if this letter gets to you all singed, there’s your culprit. I got cut short, I’m sorry – I did find father, and he’d only lost eleven pounds at that point, so I suppose it could have been worse. The city looks entirely different now, eerie almost. All that history has an odd weight under the moonlight, you know, when it’s all pale and grey like this._

_I think perhaps it’s just that I’m nearing Europe. It’s stupid, I know the world has changed, moved on in a way… but it seems impossible to me that it should look any different than when I left. How could something so terrible just go away? We’ve seen those trenches fill with mud for four years, and they didn’t wash away then. I can’t imagine that all that should just have been turned back into fields. I wish I could, but it just doesn’t seem possible. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that the war haunts me still… but let’s not talk of ghosts. I know you don’t believe in them, and I feel like it’s still a sore subject. And I suppose I should keep away from those while I’m not there to appease you, shouldn’t I?_

_I don’t know why I’m writing you all this. You’re too far away now to help, and by the time you read this I’m sure I’ll be fine. But – I tried to sleep, before you admonish me for it, I did. But I kept having those dreams. The same dream, really. And it’s not the soldiers that haunt me there, really – I thought it would be, but it is just the one Roman soldier. Perhaps it’s natural that my subconscious should go to Antony and Cleopatra, being here in Alexandria. And it should prove to you that, even when my mind is so full of old memories and blood and war, I can’t chase you from it for very long. Although I must say the combination of the two is not enjoyable in the least. Quite upsetting. Alright, very upsetting, hence my still writing to you in the middle of the night. Who knew I remembered so much of the final act of that damned play? I hope I make you proud, at least._

_Again, I don’t know why I’m writing you this. I’m sure you don’t need to read about my nightmares, especially not when they seem to revolve around so much of your blood on white marble. I just… I woke up and had no way to determine if the memory was real. I just can't get it out of my head, and – well, it was unbearable. Truly._ Nothing left remarkable beneath the visiting moon. _Trust you and the Bard to put it that well. Oh, Jack, is this how you felt? No, it must have been much worse for you, you really did think I was gone; I know you’re just fine, really. I know you’re probably up already right now. Probably down at City South already, reading your paper, maybe? I know all that, deep down, I can picture it, you and your tea and your toast. But I still wish I was there with you. Preferably to lock the door and thoroughly verify you are not hurt in any way whatsoever. And maybe make you a little late for work._

_Don’t worry about me, Jack, I’ll be fine in the morning. Drink your tea and think of me, and send me happier poetry. With or without telescopes._

_Yours, all yours, Jack,_

_Phryne Fisher_

_P.P.S. Dear Jack, it’s morning now, and I’m of half a mind not to send this letter to you at all. But I’ve no time to write another, and if there’s no letter from Egypt even though I’m sending the other letters from here, I’m sure you’ll think something is wrong. I did think about ripping off the PS, but again, I don’t want you to think I’ve been dramatically abducted or anything like that. I’m sorry, I ought not have put this on you. I’m fine, and I know you’re fine. Well, I hope you are. Do I get to ask you to be careful? Probably not, you don’t ask it of me. I won’t. I’m sorry about this whole letter, honestly._

_Anyway, I’m well, so’s the plane and my father, and I think we’ll make it to England in good time. I’ll write to you again as soon as we get there. If you can, maybe you can write me to my parents’ address sometime. I hope you’re well, and getting by without Hugh – though he’ll be back by the time you read this, I’m sure – and I hope, selfishly, that you think of me. Actually, I know you do, Jack. But I’ll do my best to encourage it further._

_Phryne_


	2. Chapter 2

_Dear Miss Fisher,_

_I was going to try and answer your letters in order, but when I read the last one I realised that’s nonsense. My impression of your impression of India can wait, however long it has to. Not that I don’t care to hear it – I certainly do! I may not quite have your hunger for adventure – I’m not sure anyone does – but I am a little jealous all the same. Though far more jealous of your father than of you; there seems to be little point to a trip to Egypt for me unless I had you to drag me there in the first place._

_First of all, don’t apologise. Please. Send me all your letters. No matter the rambling, send me everything. I want to read everything._

_I can’t begin to imagine what it must be like to go back to Europe. I didn’t even consider that part of things, but it is hard to imagine, isn’t it, that France should look any different. But we both know you’re braver than the rest of us, so I’m sure by the time this letter reaches you you’ll have twenty new, happier memories of France at the ready.  
But in all seriousness, Phryne, you shouldn’t be ashamed that the thought of going back scares you. Most men I know would have never got into that plane again if they’d known it would take them back to that place, even if they’d just fly over it in passing. I can’t say if I could have – with you, surely, but on my own, I don’t know. We all live with it, I suppose, and it is what it is, but don’t be ashamed. _

_As for sore subjects, I’ll thank you not to rub salt into old wounds. Well, keep at it if it cheers you up, but I do wish you wouldn’t find my misery quite so amusing. Speaking of, I can quite picture you in my office too. Stealing my last slice of toast, for instance, knowing full well how often I get to have lunch on a case. Wouldn’t be surprised if you drank my tea too, while I wasn’t looking. Or stole my biscuits. Which, by the way, I’ll begrudgingly forgive. If I’ll have you beg for anything, I should hope it won’t be about baked goods. As for the rest of your suggestions about my morning tea – let’s say I wouldn’t be opposed, even though it would be worrying if you managed to interfere with my work any more than you do already._

_I am fine, you know. And more careful than you’ve ever been, at any rate, though that is not a high bar to clear. And yes, Phryne, you do get to ask me to be careful. Obviously, I can’t make promises on that front, but I find I quite like to hear it anyway._

_But, pleased as I am to know you think of me, I am sorry to cause you any pain. I don’t know what I could do about it with a letter, I wish there was something. Like I said, I am fine, but I know there’s no convincing your subconscious with facts. So – let’s just say that even I would probably not be quoting Shakespeare on my deathbed. Too much, even for me._

_And I am proud, just a little - if only because I take that to mean I made you read the whole thing again, with my little speech. I had suspected as much when you chose the costumes, but I'll take this as proof, and be a little flattered. Just one thing, though, Miss Fisher - no full marks, this time - that's actually not the final act. Unless of course you cast me as Cleopatra._

_Happier poetry, that’s a challenge. I’ve been reading a young German poet for a while and he’s very good, but he’s incredibly cynical and I believe you wouldn’t care for that. I probably should put that book away for a while, too – with you gone, I have precious little to counteract all the bitterness. There are some about the war, too, and I try to avoid them, but it’s like they stare at me through the pages. So you see, I’m still being haunted, too – and it’s probably all just testament to how distracted I’ve been this past year, because it wasn’t like this before you left. Please don’t understand this as some kind of reproach; it isn’t. I told you to write me about everything, so I suppose I should do the same._

_I did consider sending you Rilke, too, I remember you enjoyed that. But I won’t, first because I like to claim at least some of the impression that poem made on you for myself, and second because his poems have a very melancholy kind of beauty. Same goes for Neruda, and I remember your disdain for Wordsworth. On that same note, I wouldn’t dare send you any Keats, I believe you might kill me for it. I might just send you Goethe, after all. My German is better than yours, so perhaps you won’t see how hackneyed it is… no, I won’t. You deserve better. I’ll have to keep you waiting until the next letter – I suppose you’d prefer that to having to wait for this one until I can think of something._

_I hope you and your parents are well, and I hope you are finding London up to your exacting standards. Or, come to think of it, a part of me hopes you don’t. I’ll allow myself to hope you won’t stay overseas forever, since for now, I’ll have to stick to a more metaphorical interpretation of your interlude, Miss Fisher. City South seems to be quite unwilling to let me go, and I’m left to expecting you to burst into my crime scenes, and being somewhat disappointed every time you don’t._

_But really, sleep better, enjoy yourself, try to be safe, and come back. No, don’t – stay as long as you want, it’s not up to me. But write, whatever comes to mind, write to me. I’ll wait._

_Yours, Jack_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poet he's referring to is Erich Kästner. And no, I don't hate ALL of Goethe, but his shorter love poems are incredibly cheesy.


End file.
